Skeletons In The Closet
by OhSoIntoCats
Summary: "It always began that he was at home, alone, which was not nightmarish in itself." America's fear of ghosts is not random, and some closets are not meant to be opened. Warnings: M/M romance, implied abuse
1. Alone

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia at all.

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What America did not realize was that it was the same nightmare that caused him to wake up at 3 AM every night. It always began that he was at home, alone, which was not nightmarish in itself. He would wake up and try to make breakfast, and something wouldn't be quite right. The shadow on his refrigerator would go the wrong way, the microwave would stall at a number higher than he'd first set it to, all the forks in the cutlery drawer would be bent at awkward angles. This may have just been dream logic, at first, nothing to worry about, even though it would make his breath catch anyway.

What turned the dreams into nightmares were the shadow people — the dark figure in the doorway that turned out to be the shadow of a chair, the man in a hat in the dim corner of a room that seemed to slip into the cabinets when one got too close.

"Hello?" America would say, every time. If they weren't hostile, they would answer, America thought, they would join him for breakfast. That's what Tony would do, and he wasn't scary, so the shadow people must have been the same.

But shadow people were not the same as Tony. They had no mouths; they couldn't speak, couldn't eat. Couldn't exist, America reasoned, he was just seeing things, it was too early, he thought as the table creaked, and something wriggled between his toes.

America would shriek, grab his toes up, and see nothing wrong with them but the long, dark shadows between them.

By then, America's heart pounded. The shadow people didn't want to just play footsie. It would take a while for him to draw up the nerve to get off of his chair, to immediately turn on all the lights in the house, to grab a flashlight, and with that in hand, the shadows slunk away.

They gave him a moment to think that he had won.

At that point, it always started with something brushing through his hair. A lover's caress, except that he was alone. The next moment he moved his head, shadows through his hair growing more nerve, giving a harsher tug. Shining the flashlight overhead did only gave the fingers the strength to pull harder, to yank, because in the harsh light the shadows only grew darker. They tore at hair, pulled at skin, tears bursting forth from irritated tear ducts, at least until America fumbled enough with the flashlight to shine it close enough to his face, close enough to his mouth for them to reach inside.

As he began to gag on the darkness he ran for the door, unbolting, unlocking, pulling, but it wouldn't yield, no matter how strong he was, as if the other side held a vacuum.

"England!" he'd screamed, "Iggy, let me out! Please, I want out!" Somehow he knew England was on the other side, he had to be, England and no one else. "Iggy! I need to get out!" His voice was small, choking. "Help me!" He cried out until he felt a fist cram down his throat, unable to speak anymore.

But someone had heard him, and the door clicked open. Vision fading, lungs burning, he backed up from the gaping maw of the door. Suddenly, whatever was out there was more terrifying than whatever was with him inside the house…

And this was when he woke up, heart pounding but unable to remember a thing except the fact that he was alone. America faced a window, streetlights glowing up from the ground and star-blocked darkness up above, figuring it must have been one of those falling dreams. He was glad, then, because apparently if you don't wake up before you hit the ground, you die. Figuring that he was lucky, this time, he rolled over, closing his eyes again, only to give his haunted house a second go.

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This is being written in addition to my NaNoWriMo, so don't expect updates to be really frequent, though I am working on the next chapter right now. So be patient, okay?


	2. Nausea

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia in any shape or form.

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It was the flicker of a curtain, nothing less, nothing more.

"England?" said America, staring up at the second floor of his house, "Are your brothers staying here tonight?" America stood, transfixed, on the curtain, now stubbornly motionless.

"Oh, no," said England, picking the correct key on his ring, "just us, love. We can be as loud as we like."

"…Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure," said England, looking up to the spot America was transfixed on, and let out a small laugh. "That room's always a bit drafty curtains swaying and all that rot. That's what you saw, right? You know that. We haven't even started the movie yet. Was there a scary movie on the plane, or something?"

"Not really, no," said America blankly, barely even processing what England had said.

"You're not scared before you even start the film, are you?" asked England. "Maybe we can skip it."

"No, no, I brought _Poltergeist_, I wanted to watch it!"

"Again?"

"Yeah," said America, "It's even scarier the second or third or fourth —"

"Or fiftieth —" England interrupted,

"Yeah, because you know what's going to happen, and there's nothing you can do about it," said America.

"Your notion of logic never ceases to amaze me," said England, letting him into the house, but America knew he was just teasing. The movies were always a good excuse to huddle close to one another, and a good excuse to stay up all night long. Once upon a time, with enough prying, France had managed to get this part of the relationship out of them — he thought it somewhat cute, but mostly disturbing. Each of them needed an excuse to hold himself close enough to his boyfriend in a way would uncomfortably close for anyone else but him? Truly? This is what years of repression for America and lack of affection for England had gotten the both of them. But, instead, America tried to push this out of his mind and stuck close to England, for, oh, no reason, while he tried to remember if this house had ever been haunted before.

Of course it wasn't haunted, America reasoned, it hadn't been haunted before, and it was difficult for places to suddenly become haunted, right? And England had owned his house for a long, long time, out of the way in the country so that nobody would bother him and remember his face when he went to town. America himself had to switch apartments every so often, just to make sure nobody caught onto the fact that he wasn't aging at the same rate as everyone else. People in New York could be so impersonal, so transient, so it wasn't really that difficult. He imagined how they must have looked from the outside. They were the scary creatures, then, the unnatural things that lurked the night. Or, day. Yeah, probably the day was more correct…

"Anyway," said America, forcing all these thoughts out of his head, like a sweep of his arm across a messy desk, "I brought popcorn! You'd better let me make it, you know how burnt popcorn smell never gets out!"

And England glared.

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"Alfred, luv, I'm right here, it's right—"

America woke with a start, either shaken or being shaken. The credits rolled down the TV and his head rested in England's lap, the popcorn in a bowl on the coffee table, nothing more than kernels now, his glasses sitting beside him.

"Um, what —"

"You fell asleep and were crying out for something. You were probably having a nightmare," said England. This was the same as England did whenever he came over to America's house, though, usually without the nightmares; he'd always fall promptly asleep on America's lap, exhausted from the trip over. Because of this, England said with a smirk, "You're getting old."

"I'm not getting old!" said America, burying his face into the closest thing, which happened to be England's crotch. England jolted.

"It's okay, we don't have to do that now if you wanted to get some sleep. We've got plenty of time."

But plenty of time meant only a day or two. How they hated being so far apart.

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They tried the next day, right after breakfast, well-rested from a full night's sleep. It started with small touches and kissing in the kitchen, which had turned to groping and tongues in the parlor and tearing at each other's clothes on the stairs. However, even though America had avoided England's cooking, he still felt sick. The nausea got worse with every touch; once England had thrown him down onto the bed, forcing a hand down his boxers, America threw up. He just couldn't stop it.

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Thank you for reading, and remember, reviews are divine!


	3. Sprint

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia in any shape or form.

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It started with the sound of footsteps. They sounded like his footsteps on thes sidewalk, but since he was running so late the sidewalks were nearly clear. The footsteps kept coming, they were close, very close, but every time America looked behind him, he saw nothing. With one step, he heard his foot hit the ground, and then again, just a split-second later. Sometimes, in empty places like these, there was an echo. That was it, there must have been an echo against the sidewalk and the metal buildings, except that the extra footsteps lost time with him, and started moving faster —

Which prompted America to move faster too. By the time he reached the building of the conference, he was sprinting, suitcase jolting his wrist with every pace, breath heavy and —

"Hello."

America jumped, so shocked by the voice he dropped his suitcase.

"Look at how America is out of breath so easily. He must be very out of shape."

America glanced behind himself, finally seeing someone. Russia.

"Hey, I'm fit as a fiddle. You're the one smoking six packs a day and downing a whole bottle of vodka in the evening."

"Who said anything about evenings?" said Russia with that small, creepy smile. "But, perhaps America is not out of shape. He started sprinting on his own, after all. But why would he sprint?"

"M-maybe I enjoy morning sprints," said America, still feeling shaken. Were those footsteps Russia's? Had Russia been staking him? Considering his size, it was easy to forget how light the Russian could be on his feet.

"It could not be the fact that you were late," said Russia, completely discarding America's suggested possibility. "After all, he's never sprinted before when he was late."

"I have a presentation this time, so I can't be late, and shit, I already am, haha," said America quickly, opening the front door, dreading security. His heart thudded, and like this he would look suspicious, even though he had been there for the past two days.

"Oh, I think I know, now! America is frightened. Look at how skittish he looks. But of what?"

America gritted his teeth, but it didn't seem to help with the slight trembling.

"There's nothing here to be afraid of, is there? It's hard to think of such a skittish nation becoming the last remaining superpower. You were so shaky when you were young. Like little Latvia, almost."

"Then you'd better watch out for Latvia," said America, the adrenaline letting him think on his feet.

"Don't worry, I have. Very thoroughly," said Russia, walking through the door America had opened, and for a second, Russia had phantom footsteps. America saw though, that where Russia had been standing stood Latvia, because even though the Soviet Union had disbanded he still liked to take 'friends' with him for meetings. Latvia was carrying what looked like a heavy suitcase and far too many binders.

"Russia doesn't need to watch out for me," said Latvia plainly.

"Hey, who knows? You might be the next superpower," said America, the tension in his body slowly relaxing. Latvia paused, his expression unreadable because the stack of binders went clear up to his face.

"Do you really think that, Mr. America?"

"Sure, you can be anything you put your mind to!"

"Mr. America," said Latvia, "Now, do you really think that, or is that one of the lies you tell children in your country?"

America stood, door held open, dumbfounded.

"T-that is what I thought," said Latvia, entering the building, "And, I am not a child."

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Updates may be a bit more frequent because I've dropped out of NaNo. Well, I've dropped out of the contest. I'm still writing the story.


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